


Bouquet

by Strozzzi (butmicoooool)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Possibly Pre-Slash, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Trauma Sharing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-22 08:22:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19663486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butmicoooool/pseuds/Strozzzi
Summary: For the good omens kinkmeme. Aziraphale is at the Hundred Guineas, and sees a staff member drugged, about to be assaulted. So he does the obvious thing, and takes the boy's place. He's never done anything like this before, but it's fine. He's an angel. It's fine.





	Bouquet

**Author's Note:**

> MAJOR CONTENT WARNINGS FOR GRAPHIC DEPICTION OF RAPE. Reader discretion is advised. 
> 
> For this prompt on the kink meme: 
> 
> Aziraphale had many good friends at the Discreet Gentlemen's Club.
> 
> One of them gets in trouble, is about to be drugged/raped and Aziraphale, trying to alter things as little as possible, would rather take his friend's place, offering himself to the other gentleman (could be done with conversation or a switching places miracle). Might be his first time, doesn't think much of it until it actually happens.
> 
> Bonus for Crowley being aware of this. Walking in on them somehow, being told what happened, or discovering it by himself (maybe that's why the angel is so fidgety after he wakes up from his long nap).
> 
> Thank you to nat and duck for their never ending support, encouragment, and keysmashes.

Crowley had decided to hit snooze on the 19th century. Which left Aziraphale with a lot of time on his hands. It was easy in the beginning, the bookshop was still fresh and Aziraphale was intent on cultivating a reputation for bad hours and bad customer service. 

But the days are long, especially when you never sleep, so Aziraphale turned to more _human_ hobbies. 

He stumbled upon the Hundred Guineas Club by chance, while doing some low level blessings. The dancing and the costumes, the freedom of expression and theatricality of it drew him in. It’s easy enough to turn a blind eye to the less favorable acts that happened when the lights are turned out. 

He keeps tabs on the staff, ensuring their safety and proper compensation in as far as he can. And he does not partake. He had flashes of interest in the beginning, but felt flush with shame and guilt. So no, he is strictly there for the gavotte. Aziraphale really, really loves the gavotte.

The dancing that night had been particularly rousing. Good conversation, good wine. Some lovely claret from France. Red and rich and flowing like a river. But the lights are out, so he quickly sobers up and heads out the door. 

That’s when he sees it- sees _them_. He stops. 

It’s a newer member of the club, with one of the new boys. The poor thing can’t be more than 16, and he’s barely able to stand on his own. The man he’s with towers over him, arm around the young man’s waist, dragging him along to a private room. Aziraphale knows what’s happening. 

He’s an angel, he has to stop it. 

Low on ideas, he miracles a disguise for himself so he looks about 20 years younger, with painted lips and rouge, and a long skirt. It’s easy enough to put temptation in the man’s head. It’s already there, Aziraphale just redirects it to himself. 

“You,” the man says. His voice is deep, draws Aziraphale in. He’s not unattractive. He has large shoulders, broad chest, a few inches on Aziraphale. His face his clean shaven and his hair is cropped short. Most likely military. “Come here, boy.” 

He lets go of the boy in his arms, and Aziraphale steadies him. “Just let me lie this one down, sir,” Aziraphale says. “Then I’ll join you.”  
  
“Alright, hurry up.” The man undoes his belt and walks into the room. 

Aziraphale’s heart is hammering in his chest. He looks at the boy, he was definitely drugged. His eyes are unfocused and his breathing laboured. Aziraphale miracles him to the bedroom in the bookshop. He should be safe there for the evening, can sleep off whatever he was given. 

Aziraphale turns to the room, pausing in the doorway. He could leave now, just slip away and not go through with… this. But then, he’s already used two miracles, any more would attract heaven’s attention. And if Aziraphale just walks away, the man will become irate and that could cause bad repercussions for the poor boy he’s trying to save. 

“Get in here,” the man calls. 

Aziraphale casts away his nerves. He’s never done anything like this before, but he’s been curious. Better circumstances might have been nicer, better lighting and better clothes, perhaps. But it’s all in the name of a good deed. Aziraphale feels a thrill of nervous excitement go through him. 

Before he can go through the door, the man returns. His shirt is off, revealing coarse black hair. His trousers are still on but undone, and Aziraphale can see his cock jutting out. 

“Oh.” It fills him with a strange feeling. Is this lust? It doesn’t feel particularly lustful, but he’s an angel. So Aziraphale ignores it and lets the man take him by the arm and push him to the bed. 

“Hand and knees,” the man commands. 

The strange feeling spreads from his stomach up to his chest. It makes it hard to focus on the man’s voice. Aziraphale tries to comply, but he’s apparently too slow. The man lifts Aziraphale’s hips, then presses between his shoulder blades so his face is in the pillow and his arse is on display. 

“It’ll be a quick one tonight, boy,” the man says. 

Aziraphale just nods, forehead resting on the bed. 

Then there’s hands pushing up his skirt, exposing him to the air. The the hands are spreading his cheeks open, the sound of someone spitting, and a thumb pressing in. Aziraphale can’t help but tense, and it just makes everything worse. He screws his eyes shut, tries to breathe. 

There’s a laugh, and more wetness. The thumb inside him disappears, but he doesn’t have time to even sigh in relief before something thicker is pressing into him. It hurts, and Aziraphale has trouble biting back a whimper. His hands are white knuckled in the sheets. 

Aziraphale knows, he knows this is supposed to feel good. Knows the man moving above him and in him is feeling good. He’s heard stories of men enjoying this, he knows he should be enjoying this. Why isn’t he? Is Aziraphale doing it wrong? Should he be doing something? Participating? Talking? Moaning?

Hands press all over his hips and back, dig into the soft flesh there and at his shoulders. The man leans forward, pressing his chest to Aziraphale’s back. He isn’t talking, but he’s breathing heavily into Aziraphale’s ear. 

Suddenly it’s the only thing Aziraphale can hear. His senses focus on it, the sound of it, then the smell of wine on his breath. The same claret that Aziraphale had been drinking. The stench of it turns Aziraphale’s stomach, and he feels like he could be sick. But he fights it back. He bites down on the pillow in front of him. He wants to scream, but nothing comes out. 

Why is he not enjoying this? What’s wrong with him? 

The man is gripping his shoulders now, and his thrusts are getting harder, slapping painfully against Aziraphale’s backside. It only hurts if he thinks about it, so Aziraphale doesn’t think about it. He doesn’t think about anything. 

Aziraphale assumes time passes. The man pulls out, and Aziraphale feels spurts of wetness hit his lower back. The man slaps Aziraphale’s backside once, sharply. Aziraphale’s ears ring with the sound of it. Then the man leaves and Aziraphale is alone. 

It takes him a few minutes to move, his limbs feel stiff and heavy. It’s almost like there is still something holding him down. But there’s no one there. 

“There’s no one there,” he says aloud. 

No one answers. Who would? There’s no one there. 

He miracles himself clean, clothes back in place. It’s frivolous but should be small enough to go unnoticed. He adjusts his bowtie, smoothes down the lapels of his jacket and walks out of the room. 

The doorman notices him as he’s leaving. 

“Oh Mr. Fell. Don’t usually see you this late. Enjoy yourself?” The doorman winks. 

“Oh, um… y- yes.” Aziraphale takes his hat and avoids eye contact. 

“Good for you! See you tomorrow?” 

“Yes, yes,” Aziraphale answers on instinct. “Till tomorrow.” 

It’s fine. He’s fine, of course he’ll be back tomorrow. So he didn’t really enjoy… what happened, but it wasn't even really him. None of the others will know. He can just carry on as normal, it’s fine. He’s a little out of sorts right now, but he’s sure it’s nothing a cup of tea and a good book won’t fix. 

He’s uneasy walking home, and the feeling follows him into the bookshop as he makes tea and sits down with an old favorite book of prophecy. He sits there staring at the first page, eyes unfocused, until the sun rises. 

It’s late morning when he’s snapped out of it by footfalls on the stairs. For a brief second Aziraphale’s mind flashes with panic. _He followed me home?_

“Mr. Fell?” It’s not the man from last night, it’s the boy.

“Thomas?” Aziraphale says.

“How did I…?” He looks around the shop, confused.

“Oh! My boy, I must apologize.” Aziraphale springs up, smiling brightly. “Last night you fell suddenly ill, and I um, brought you in a cab back here to rest.” 

“Oh, right,” Thomas still looks worried. “Did we..?” 

“No, no, nothing happened!” Aziraphale says. “You know me, I don’t… I--” 

“Yeah, of course.” The last of the boy’s worry is gone. “I know you Mr. Fell, the only clean one in the place.” Thomas laughs. 

“Yes, well.” Aziraphale clears his throat. “I’ll fetch you some money for a cab, and for the trouble I’ve caused.” 

“Aw, cheers, Mr. Fell.” 

He takes a fistfull of cash from the till, prays that it’s the right currency for the year, and presses it to Thomas’ hands. 

“And do pass on a message for me,” Aziraphale says. “Let them know I have been called away on business and won’t be back around for quite some time.” 

“Yeah, sure thing.” Thomas is staring bug eyed at the small fortune in his hands. He says goodbye and runs out the door, probably worried Aziraphale would change his mind. 

Aziraphale locks the door and puts up a sign reading CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. 

Then he heads up to bed and for the first time in his life, he falls asleep. 

  


* * *

Crowley wakes up with a crick in his neck and in desperate need of a piss. He sorts all the physical issues out before conjuring up something more fashionable for the year he’s woken up in. Then he slips on a pair of sunglasses and wanders down to Soho. 

The bookshop is closed, which isn’t exactly unusual for 4 pm on a Wednesday. Crowley shrugs and pushes the door to open it and-- 

It’s locked. Strange. That usually meant that Aziraphale was out, but Crowley could sense his angelic presence in the shop upstairs. He knows Aziraphale is in there. 

So Crowley does something he’s never done before: He knocks. 

No answer. 

He knocks again, still nothing. He crouches down to shout through the letterbox. 

“AZIRAPHALE!” 

“It’s no use,” says a voice beside him. “The shop’s been closed for years.” 

“Years?” Crowley turns to the elderly woman beside him. 

“I never cared for that dandy, anyway.” She mutters “Good riddance” under her breath. 

Crowley watches her walk away and feels annoyance bubble under his skin. He snaps his fingers and walks through the open door, snapping again to close them behind him. 

He knows there’s something wrong the minute he steps into the bookshop. There’s a strong smell of damp and mildew permeating the air, and thick coats of dust on everything. He walks into the backroom. He sees a book open on the first page, a cup of what may have once been tea next to it, but is now a biohazard. 

A hundred worst case scenarios flash through his mind as he takes the stairs up to the flat two at a time. He slams the bedroom door open. 

All sense of urgency leaves him when he sees Aziraphale is... sleeping. He’s curled up in a ball under the covers, golden curls peeking out. Like down stairs, everything is covered in dust. Piles of papers and clothes on the floor. 

On the wall, Crowley sees a calendar. 1879. Almost a decade ago. 

Aziraphale looks peaceful. He’s breathing, not that he really needs to, but the gentle rise and fall of his chest is a comforting sight. Crowley thinks about waking him, but what would he say? _I was worried about you. I was bored. I missed you._

Not a chance in heaven or hell of Crowley admitting any of that to Aziraphale’s face. 

Instead he leaves Aziraphale undisturbed, closing the door gently behind him. He goes back downstairs. He’ll leave a note so that Aziraphale knows to call him when he wakes up. He looks around to find some notepaper, but he can’t find anything in the chaos. So he starts to tidy up a little. He organises the scattered papers, outdated bills, and letters. He figures he might as well dust while he’s at it, then he polishes the furniture, washes the floors, clears the rotten food from the cupboards. 

He’s filthy and sweating by the end of it, but he feels good that he can do something for Aziraphale. Before he leaves, he scribbles a note and goes back upstairs to leave it on Aziraphale’s bedside table. He’s moved from the foetal position. Aziraphale is now spread eagle on the bed, snoring softly. The covers are kicked down to his feet. Crowley carefully, so, so carefully, pulls them back up. 

  


A couple of weeks pass before Crowley goes to check on him again. Aziraphale is curled up again, on the other side this time. Crowley gives the shop another dusting and tidying and leaves a new note. 

It becomes a habit, checking on Aziraphale and the bookshop. At first, it’s only every other month or so, but it quickly becomes once a week. On a Sunday. 

Usually he just dusts, checks on the books, and leaves a new note. But sometimes he’ll bring things he found that reminded him of Aziraphale. He finds a few books of prophecy, all first editions of course, and leaves them on Aziraphale’s bedside table. He brings other things, too - bottles of vintage wine, interesting fountain pens, bowties. One September he leaves a pocket watch with a winged serpent etched into it. 

A year turns into two, turns into five, melts into ten. 

When Crowley does eventually get a call from Aziraphale thanking him for the gifts and that he “needn’t have gone to all that trouble,” Crowley waits until they hang up to cry. The relief just floods through him, and he lets out a breath he’s been holding for a decade. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


Aziraphale didn’t dream when he slept. No, it was just inky, blissful blackness. There were flashes, sometimes. A car horn, a door slamming, voices on the street. But mostly it was nothingness. 

He doesn’t consciously choose to wake up. Something deep within him tells him it’s time. Maybe he didn’t want to miss the turn of the century. The parties are always wonderfully extravagant. And maybe Crowley would be awake by now, too, and Aziraphale could go back to thwarting and going to lunch with him. Life as normal.

So Aziraphale sits up in bed, stretches with a deep yawn, and smiles. Yes, everything would go back to normal. Everything would be fine. 

Aziraphale sees a pile of books on his bedside table, with a note on top. 

_Sleeping Beauty -_

_Did the usual - dusted, mopped, polished. I shall send you the invoice when you WAKE UP._

_\- Your Begrudging Housekeeper_

Aziraphale is confused until he flips the paper over and sees a crudely drawn stick figure wearing sunglasses and holding a feather duster. Crowley. He turns his attention to the books, and they’re exquisit. A wave of emotion overwhelms Aziraphale - sadness, regret, and something he can’t quite put a finger on. 

How long had Crowley been checking in on him? There’s no dust on the table or the books, it must be recent. “The Usual” - How many times has he done this? How many notes has Aziraphale slept through? 

He rushes downstairs. Everything in the shop is the same, except… It’s all sparkling clean. It looks like a new shop. The piles of papers in the back are organised in neat little folders. There’s a shining set of pens and inks, just begging to be touched. 

He feels faint, and catches himself in the doorway. He needs to call Crowley immediately. 

Aziraphale manages to wave off Crowley’s questions with little fuss. He ignores the twinge in his chest as he says, “It was quite the accident, I only meant to take a quick nap. I hope I didn’t miss much.” 

“Nah,” Crowley says. His voice is crackly on the other end. It’s good to hear it all the same. 

“Have you plans this evening?” Aziraphale asks. “I wonder if there are any good new restaurants around?” 

“I know just the place. I’ll pick you up in an hour.” 

“Splendid.”

All in all, nothing changes. Crowley wiles, Aziraphale thwarts. Their arrangement resumes. They go for lunch, and sometimes dinner. Nothing new, except for the subtle but ever present knot of tension in chest that twinges when he thinks about it. He doesn’t think about it. 

He’s fine. 

Years pass, as they tend to do. It’s somewhere in the 1920’s and Azirapahle and Crowley have taken to alcohol like a duck to… whatever it is ducks take to. 

It’s a normal Tuesday evening when Crowley all but crashes into the bookshop. 

“Aziraphale!” 

Aziraphale takes off his spectacles. He’s not annoyed at the intrusion but he puts on a face. “Crowley, I am very busy,” he lies. 

“Yes, but I have wine!” He brandishes the bottle in front of Aziraphale’s face. 

“You make a strong argument. I’ll get the glasses.” 

Crowley drops himself onto the couch.

“I have a lovely vintage from Bordeaux for you,” he says when Aziraphale returns from the kitchen. “Shall I pour?” 

There’s something nagging at the back of Aziraphale’s mind, but he pushes past it like usual. “Yes please,” he says, holding out a glass. Crowley pours. 

“It’s from last century, it was quite popular. I wonder if you’ve had it before?” 

Aziraphale puts his nose to the glass to smell the aroma. He takes a sip. It takes bitter on his tongue. 

“There is something familiar about it,” he muses.

“Yeah,” Crowley says, swirling his own glass dangerously. “This one is from the early 1800s, back when they used to call it a claret.” 

Aziraphale takes another sip, a proper mouthful this time. 

It tastes like a dark room, bad breath, shame. 

Without thinking, Azirapahle drops the glass to the floor and runs to the sink in the kitchen. He retches once, twice, then vomits up a grey sludge. He didn’t know angels could vomit. Maybe they can’t, maybe it’s only him. 

There’s a hand on his back, rubbing, and it’s burning hot but Aziraphale is thankful for the distraction as he empties his stomach. When he has nothing left in him, he falls back against Crowley, who has a glass of water waiting for him. 

“Drink,” Crowley says gently. 

The water is ice cold, the glass wet with condensation. It washes down the taste of bile on Aziraphale’s tongue, and the coldness of it brings him back to himself. 

“Is the wine gone off?” Crowley asks. “I had some, it tasted fine. Did you eat something strange earlier?” 

“No, no,” Aziraphale’s throat hurts, makes his voice weak. “It’s nothing.”

“Nothing?” Crowley’s brows furrow. “It’s clearly not nothing.” 

“I don’t-- there’s nothing wrong with me.” Aziraphale gets up then, pushing away from Crowley’s touch, and marches over to the couch. “I just need to lie down, and I’ll be right as rain.” 

“Lie down?” Crowley follows him. “Like sleep?” 

“Yes, perhaps just a quick nap.” 

“You don’t sleep, Aziraphale.” Crowley sits on the chair across from Aziraphale, leaning forward. “Just that one time, and you still haven’t told me why.” 

“I just… wanted to try it.” Aziraphale shrugs. He doesn’t look at Crowley, but at the books behind him. 

“What happened?” Crowley says. 

“Nothing, really. There’s really no need to make a big fuss about it.” 

“There’s something Aziraphale.” Crowley’s voice goes quiet. “You were different when you woke up, and I didn’t want to pry.” He takes a breath. “But I’m your friend, and now I’m prying. What happened.” 

Aziraphale just wants to close his eyes and go to sleep. There’s a heaviness in his shoulders, that ever-present knot in his chest. He rubs at his sternum. 

“Something happened, before you went to sleep?” 

“Yes.” Aziraphale doesn’t mean to say it, but it’s out. 

“Yes?” 

He knows Crowley won’t let it go now. He closes his eyes, he wants to pretend he is alone. Pretend there is no one there. There is no one there. 

“I need you to tell me what happened.” Crowley’s voice seems far away. Then Aziraphale feels movement and Crowley’s voice is closer. “Please, Aziraphale.” 

He opens his eyes to see Crowley beside him on the couch, sitting a careful distance away. He can see the concern on his face, even with the glasses on. 

“You’re going to laugh at me for being so dramatic about it,” Aziraphale says. He folds his hands on his lap. “It really was nothing, and I’m perfectly fine.” 

Crowley says nothing. 

“It was at the club," Aziraphale continues. "The-- the-- you know the one.” 

“The hundred guineas? The gay club?” 

Aziraphale just nods. Why is this so hard to talk about? Why can’t he just tell the story, it’s not like anything serious happened. That kind of act was a daily occurrence around him, _is_ a daily occurrence. Why is he in such a tizzy about it? It’s pathetic really. Aziraphale shakes his head a little against the thoughts and pushes on. 

“Well, I’m sure-- I’m sure you know, the-- the _type_ of activities that go on there.” 

“You learning the gavotte?” 

Aziraphale shakes his head. “No, no.” 

“Then..?” 

“There are a number of rent boys at the establishment and when the light goes out--” 

“Oooh,” Crowley says, and there is a touch of laughter in his voice. See? Aziraphale is making a deal of nothing. This is nothing, Crowley will laugh and they will get over it and never speak of it again. 

“And you what?” Crowley continues. “You indulged in one of the rent boys, and feel guilty?” 

Aziraphale shakes his head. 

“I was-- There was a boy there, his name was Thomas. He was-- he couldn’t have been older than sixteen. And when I saw him he was drugged to the gills, absolutely out of it, and was being dragged to a room by-- he could barely walk, he was-- I couldn’t let what I knew was going to happen, happen.” 

Crowley has gone absolutely still beside him. Aziraphale stares down at Crowley’s boot. 

“I couldn’t-- he was so young, and-- and--,” Aziraphale presses his hands to his mouth. 

“So you killed the man?” Crowley says. 

Aziraphale shakes his head. 

He moves his hands back to his knees.

“No,” He says. His voice is steady, calm. It’s nothing. “I took the boy’s place.” 

Crowley moves then suddenly, and he’s standing up and Aziraphale looks up at the sight of him looming over. There’s anger rolling off him in waves. 

Just as suddenly as he stood, he’s back down beside Aziraphale, closer this time.

“What happened, what did he do to you?” 

Aziraphale feels stupid, he feels fucking idiotic. “There’s no need for all that,” he says. “What do you _think_ happened?” He spits the words out angrily. 

“I need you to tell me what--”  
  
“He fucked me.” Aziraphale is furious with embarrassment. “Is that what you want to hear? He fucked me! Do you want all the saucy details, too? Hmm? Want to hear how he touched me, how he put me on my hands and knees and fucked me like a dog? How I didn’t even know his name?” 

“Did you-- Did you want it?” Crowley’s voice is neutral. It makes Aziraphale even angrier. 

“Of course I _wanted_ it. I didn’t stop him, I took the boy’s place, I knew what I was getting into.” 

“Had you done sexual acts before?” 

The question catches Aziraphale off guard, and he says “no” before he can think of a lie. 

“And when he was doing-- those things did you… enjoy it?”

“Well, I--” Aziraphale pauses. “I didn’t-- I didn’t stop him.” 

“Did you want to stop him? Could you have stopped him?” 

“I’m an angel,” Aziraphale scoffs. “Of course I could have stopped him.” 

“But you didn’t.” 

“No.” 

“Why not?” 

_I couldn’t._

Aziraphale can’t say it. But the words rattle around in his brain. Why? Why couldn’t he stop it? He could have thrown the man off him, miracled himself out of there. There’s a million things he could have done, but he didn’t. For some reason, he couldn’t. Shame rolls through him, and he feels like he might throw up again. He swallows down the bile in his throat, grips his knees.

Crowley brushes his fingertips to the back of Aziraphale’s hand. Just the barest of touches before he pulls away again. 

“Aziraphale,” he says gently. “He raped you.” 

“No!” It feels like he’s been stabbed. “It wasn’t--” Aziraphale looks up then. Crowley had taken off his glasses at some point, and Aziraphale is struck first by how bright and golden his eyes are, then by how sad he looks. 

“It wasn’t like that, I assure you.” Azirahale says. “I had been meaning to try it, to see what all the hullabaloo was about, so when I saw that poor chap I thought, great, a wonderful opportunity to try sex and to help at the same time.” 

Crowley’s mouth is pressed in a thin line. 

“It really wasn’t, well-- it wasn’t _that._ ” Aziraphale looks at Crowley, and Crowley looks back at him.

“What does the wine have to do with it?” Crowley asks. His voice is still so _gentle_ and soft and Aziraphale wants to hit him, he’s so angry. 

“It--,” Aziraphale deflates. “I don’t-- I don’t remember…” Aziraphale trails off. 

He doesn’t remember until he does, and he’s in a dark room and there’s heavy breathing and the bitter taste of that wine on his tongue. 

“I was-- I drank that wine, that night. I could-- I could smell it off him, while he--” 

“When he raped you.”

“Crowley, _please,_ ” Aziraphale is begging. “Stop saying that, it’s not-- it’s not what happened.” 

Crowley’s fingers return to Aziraphale’s hand, pressing more firmly this time. 

“Aziraphale,” he says. “I’ve seen rape, and rapists. I’ve seen their victims.” 

“You…?” Aziraphale can’t finish the sentence. 

“I lived in hell,” Crowley sounds sad. “Of course I’ve been raped.” 

“Oh, my dear-- my--,” Aziraphale can’t stop the soft sob that rips out of him. “Crowley.” He takes Crowley’s face in his hands. Crowley closes his eyes and sighs. He brings a hand up to hold Aziraphale’s wrist. 

“I’ve had over 6000 years to process it all, I’m fine.” 

“I’m so… Crowley, I always forget how long you spent in Hell, what you must have been through, I am so-- I’m sorry.” Aziraphale lets his tears flow. It’s easy to cry for Crowley, to feel his pain, to hold him and to comfort him. 

“My choice to fall, wasn’t it?” Crowley smiles. “I knew what I was getting in to.” 

“Yes but that doesn’t mean--” Aziraphale stops. 

“Doesn’t mean what?” The gentleness is back. 

“It doesn’t mean that you wanted it, wanted that pain.” Aziraphale feels small. 

“Hmm? Does it not?” Crowley lowers Aziraphale’s hands from his face, but keeps hold of them. 

“Sometimes we think we want things, and then we change our mind, but it’s too late and the damage has been done.” 

“But this is-- this isn’t anything at all like your--” 

“No, it’s nothing like my Fall.” Crowley doesn’t sound angry, or sad, he’s just calm and gentle. “Falling was the right thing for me. Like saving that boy was the right thing for you. We don’t regret these things.” 

“No,” Azirapahale says, gripping onto Crowley’s hands. “No, we don’t.”  
  
“But what happened after, the rape, the abuse, that wasn’t our fault.” Crowley looks Aziraphale in the eye and holds it. “That wasn’t your fault.” 

“So it wasn’t… was it?” Aziraphle says. “You really think… was it? Was it-- It… I can’t even say the word.” 

“Yeah, it was rape.” There’s sadness in his voice now. “I’m so--”

“But, Crowley,” Aziraphale cuts him off. “You have suffered so much, and I never even--”  
  
“I don’t need your pity,” he says. “I need your forgiveness.” 

“What?” 

“I’m sorry, Aziraphale.” Crowley’s voice is thick with sadness. “I’m so, so sorry.” 

“Oh, hush, what could you possibly be sorry for?”

“I could have… I don’t know, but I should have been there.”

“It’s nothing, Crowley. I’m fine.” 

“You slept for two decades after, I should have known there was something wrong.” 

“I wouldn’t have told you, I would have pushed you away.” Aziraphale chuckles weakly. “I don’t know why I’m not pushing you away now.” 

“I’m a wiley serpent, you can’t thwart me.” 

“Oh, of course. The wiliest.” 

“Still, I am sorry,” he says, more seriously. “How do you feel?”   
  
“It’s… I don’t really know, if I’m honest.” Aziraphale looks down at their hands. “It still feels like I’m making a big deal out of nothing but I can’t-- I can’t pretend that it didn’t happen, that it--” He takes a breath. “Maybe it wasn’t nothing, maybe it was… what you said it was.” 

Crowley nods. “Give it time.” 

“Does it… Do you feel… better? What you’ve been through… Unimaginable. How are you ok? _Are_ you ok?” 

“I’m ok.” Crowley says. He lets go of Aziraphale’s hands and sits more comfortably on the couch. He smiles at Aziraphale, and it’s warm and it’s familiar, and it feels like a balm on Aziraphale’s nerves. 

“I had a good friend who helped me through it,” Crowley says. 

“Who?” Aziraphale should be ashamed of the jealousy in his tone, but it makes Crowley throw his head back in laughter. 

“You, you stupid angel.”

“Oh.” And for the first time in a long time, Aziraphale smiles a genuine smile. “I didn’t really do much, did I?” 

“You’re you.” Crowley puts his hands out, palms up, gesturing to Aziraphale. “You can’t help but heal the broken things around you.” 

“You’re hardly broken.” He looks at Crowley, as if he might notice cracks or breaks that he couldn’t see before. 

“I’m pieced back together, and better for it, I think.” 

“I’m glad to have you, Crowley.” Aziraphale looks down at his hands again. He wants to reach out, but keeps them in his lap. 

“Yeah well, I’ve used up all my sap for the day. I’ve only got sarcastic comments left.” 

“I’ll take them.” Aziraphale sits back then, so they’re side by side. 

A few moments of silence go by while they collect their respective thoughts.

“Shall I leave?” Crowley says, breaking the silence. “Or would you mind if I stayed for a little while?”

“Of course, my dear,” Aziraphale says. “I wouldn’t mind a… a chat.” 

“A chat? About what?” 

“Any old thing, I think I would just like to listen to you talk for a while.” Aziraphale winces. “Is that a strange request? Do forgive me-”  
  
“No, no,” Crowley says. “Not strange at all. Let me think of something.” 

“Anything light will do.” 

Crowley scratches at his chin for a moment before his face lights up. “Oh! I know. You’ll like this,” he says, leaning in with a smirk. “I’ve taken up horticulture.” 

“No!” Aziraphale gasps in delight. “Do go on, my dear boy.”  
  
And Crowley does, telling him about species and soil and such. Little by little, Aziraphale relaxes, until he finds himself with his shoulder pressed ever so slightly to Crowley’s. And Crowley, ever so slightly, presses back. 

They’re in the bookshop. 

They’re safe.

For the first time in almost 50 years the knot in Aziraphale’s chest is gone. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Comments will be moderated, but are very, very appreciated.


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